Somewhere to Sleep
by CountingAllTheStars
Summary: Sometimes it's not what you have; it's who you have – and when you're living on the street, that means everything. Clara and John only have each other, but for them, that's more than what they can ask for. When a stranger called the Doctor interferes, maybe their futures are much more different than they originally thought. Homeless AU. (Eleven/Clara) (Twelve/Clara)
1. In the Beginning

Her heart was racing.

Clara spun around, the crowds of people making her dizzy as her eyes flicked from face to face. She had to find him. Where was he? What was going on?

She pushed through the people, muttering quick apologies as strangers shouted after her. She didn't care. Something was wrong, she could feel it, she could sense it.

He would never ever leave her. Not intentionally.

It was when she skidded around the corner she realised what had happened.

There he was, being led away by two policemen, his wrists captured in silver handcuffs. His eyes caught sight of her just as one of the policemen forced him head first into the back of the police car. He shook his head: a short abrupt signal. _Don't follow me. Don't interfere._

But Clara couldn't let them take him.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: In the Beginning <strong>

The air was bitey.

Clara pulled the coat further across her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist so that every inch of her skin was covered with at least one layer. She breathed in and out, in and out, rhythmically, in exaggerated movements. That was a trick Dodger taught her a few weeks ago: big breaths, he told her, deep breaths. Pumping blood meant free heat, and in their situation, anything which was free was priceless.

She was alone tonight. The November breeze was always colder on your own. Clara straightened her back against the concrete wall and looked out towards to the city. This was her favourite spot, right here. She didn't like sitting on the main streets – she didn't like the attention. Every time someone passed her without the smallest glance she was reminded of the callousness of the city, the emotional detachment. Then again, she supposed anything was better than meeting the stray glance of a pedestrian and seeing the pity reflected in their eyes before they avoid your gaze altogether, embarrassed to have been caught.

Clara preferred it here, under the bridge. Away from the hustle and bustle of inner city life, but still close enough to hear it. To be able to close your eyes and imagine you were a part of it, and not removed, sitting beside a muddy puddle with nothing but a small suitcase and a red coat to call your own. No pitying stares or heartless ignorance to keep you awake at night. There was less hope someone would come to your rescue, but if Clara was being honest with herself, she lost that hope months ago.

She passed the time by staring at the sky. Sleep didn't come naturally, it usually pounced on her due to exhaustion. Since it was inner city London, the sky was starless but no less interesting. Clara hadn't appreciated the movements and patterns of the smoggy night sky before she found herself on the streets. If the past few months had taught her anything, it was that beauty can be found in the darkest of places if you opened your mind long enough to let it in.

It was when she was staring at the sky, a soft padding sounded from her immediate right. She flicked her eyes to follow the sound, her muscles stiffening in case she needed to move. Something scurried between the shadows underneath the dark bridge, darting left then right in irregular movements. As Clara squinted she caught a flash of white and black fur. She held out her hand, hoping it would encourage the small creature to approach, even though she had no food to offer.

A scruffy collie dog ducked out of the shadows and into the orange glow of the streetlamp light. He sniffed Clara's hand, almost cautiously, before padding closer and resting his head on her knees. Laughing, Clara scratched his floppy ears, running her hands through the warm fur. Despite being scruffy, the dog definitely appeared to be well cared for. He didn't even have a collar. His sad brown eyes stared into her face as if he was reading her. For the first time in a few days, Clara found herself genuinely smiling.

"Where did you come from, eh?" She stroked the place his collar should have been. "Are you lost like the rest of us?"

Accompanied by the steady breathing of her new found friend, Clara heard footsteps coming in her direction. Loud, running, urgent steps. The dog sensed them too; his head turned in the direction of the bridge like he knew what was expected.

"Buddy!" a voice yelled. "_Buddy!_"

Clara jumped to her feet. That was a man's voice – a man she didn't recognise. She threw her side bag over her shoulder and began to back away, quickly thinking of where to go next. She didn't want to take any risks to see if the person who owned the voice was friendly or not; one wrong decision could cost her dearly.

But she couldn't leave the dog. And the dog wouldn't budge.

"Come on, boy. I have to go!"

Instead of acknowledging her pleading, he stubbornly stood his ground, refusing to follow.

"Buddy?" the man called. Clara could see his outline now, he was only a few metres away from her. She would've ran if it wasn't for the dog suddenly bolting in his direction, barking out a gruff greeting. He bent down to kiss the dog's head, and when the orange light of the streetlamp fell onto his features, that was when Clara saw his face for the first time.

His face was long and angular, his strong jaw mostly covered with a stubbly beard. His hair was rich brown, flicked over into a messy quiff, and as he glanced up at Clara – who was half turned away from him, ready to leave – his hazel green eyes were sparkling and wide. Kind eyes, she decided. This man had kind eyes.

Kind eyes meant nothing to her anymore. She glanced from the dog to the man then spun around, walking briskly off in the opposite direction.

She had only walked a few steps when she heard shouting.

"Oi! Where you going?"

She continued in the opposite direction.

"Did my dog bother you?" he called. Was he following her now?

No response.

"I'm sorry if he did. He's not usually this – oi, Buddy!"

The scruffy dog ran in front of Clara, almost making her trip while making her hasty exit. She sighed and glared at the creature, frustrated that the animal was getting in her way. Just as she was about to shoo him, he raised his paw and padded Clara's knee. Shaking her head, she knelt down and stroked his ears again, unable to look away from the dark brown dog eyes staring up at her.

"He seems to like you," the man observed.

Clara struggled with herself for a few moments. If this man was a threat, surely he would've done something by now? Stolen her bag, knocked her out. She had her back open to him at this moment.

"Is his name Buddy?" she asked after a long silence.

"Yeah," answered the man. He was taking slow steps towards her, like approaching a wounded animal. "Thought Buddy was an appropriate name. When you're as lonely as me, he makes you feel like you have at least one friend."

That was what made Clara turn to face him. He jarred at her sudden eye contact as if he wasn't quite expecting it. She stared at him a long time, taking in every detail of his face. Studying him. He cleared his throat and held out his hand – not straight and rigid like a business man but instead his palm was open like he was making an offering. Clara wordlessly placed her hand on top of his, their skin only slightly brushing together because of the loose contact.

"Doctor John Smith," he introduced with a small bow.

"Doctor?" Clara questioned.

He scoffed. "Yeah, didn't do me much good, did it? What good is a PhD when you're on the streets?"

Before Clara responded, she reminded herself of rule one that Dodger taught her way back when: never ask why. It didn't matter where the fellow homeless came from, it didn't matter what they did to end up there, or remain there. If you're on the streets, you're all the same, and judgement should never be attached to letting someone know such personal information. Someone would tell you how they ended up with nothing if they wanted to – asking guaranteed trouble. _And it's rude_, Dodger said, _just because you don't have a roof over your head, doesn't mean you can forget your manners._

So Clara swallowed such questions which would usually thirst her curiosity.

"Clara Oswald," she announced, nodding her head.

"Clara," he said, tasting the words. "Nice name, you should definitely keep it."

She frowned slightly. "Um, thanks. I think."

"I hope my dog didn't disturb you."

"Oh, no, not at all." She made an effort to smile but it didn't feel right on her face. She watched him as he crouched down to kiss Buddy's head, soothingly stroking the length of his body and muttering words of endearment. Clara could feel a section of her heart melting at the adoration between the dog and owner – peaking as Buddy began to lick the Doctor's face.

Clara took it as her cue to leave. She quietly turned her back on them, walking in the direction of the inner city. There was a newfound heaviness in her chest, and she was sure it had something to do with the mysterious Doctor John Smith. Shivering again, she pulled her coat around her waist and stared up at the sky. Was it the companionship she missed? Having a friend, a responsibility? Someone to rely on you? She couldn't quite pinpoint the exact reason why the air felt colder now.

Then she heard his voice calling her again.

"Hey – do you have somewhere to sleep?"

She paused to glance over her shoulder. "No, funnily enough. Hence the 'home-less' in homelessness."

He laughed at that. "Not quite what I meant. But you weren't going to stay out here all night, were you?"

"Nowhere else to go." She shrugged.

"Well, I don't exactly have a home but I do have shelter. It's better than staying out in the cold. You can join me, if you like."

Clara was tempted to say yes. It seemed like an honest request but she couldn't be too sure.

He picked up on her hesitancy. "No catch," he explained. "You're cold and I'm lonely. I won't even make conversation with you. I'd just like to feel the presence of a human for a change rather than a slobbering fur ball." He patted Buddy's head. "No offence, Bud."

He now opened his arms wide for emphasis, opening his coat to show the empty pockets, twirling around so she could see he wasn't hiding something. "You don't have to trust me. Just follow me, if you want." With one last genuine smile he backed away in the direction of the tunnel, leaving enough space between them so Clara could easily ignore his offer or choose to follow him.

Her heart was begging her to follow – to the promise of shelter and maybe even a small conversation. Little things she had taken for granted all of her life which she valued with her whole being now. But her head, her head was saying no – what if this was an elaborate trick? No one could be so genuinely caring on the streets. It was every man for himself.

When had she gotten so cynical? Deep down Clara knew there was an optimist waiting to break free, but the last few months had taught her nothing but harsh truths about life and the human condition. She longed to turn back the clock to a few years ago, when everything had looked so shiny and new and hopeful. She had her perfect little life planned out in her perfect little way. What she didn't know was that sometimes it only takes one tragic thing to change your entire life and have your personal world come crashing down around you. That's what she was now – spiralling out of control, sinking to the bottom with no one to help her up. As much as she fought it and as much as she tried to take control, she was shoved back down to the ground again.

And maybe, just maybe she was ready to trust in a little piece of humanity again. Maybe she would take the chance and choose to believe Doctor John Smith was sincerely offering her shelter because he was a good man. Nothing more, nothing less.

So it was with a newfound spark of hope that Clara Oswald took a step forward in the direction of the Doctor.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is going to be an Eleven/Clara story with a twist halfway through which may lead to Twelve/Clara. Wait and see. **

**I apologise for the first chapter, because this fic really is going to get much better - I just want to build up slowly. Make it realistic. Currently the rating is T, but I might have to change it for some scarier scenes from a certain point, but I will warn you when that happens. I'm also sorry this isn't a _Politics of the Heart_ sequel - I've had a serious case of writer's block which I'm trying to overcome with this story. **

**Please review and follow - if I get enough reviews on the first chapter, I'll upload the second quite quickly! **


	2. A Place to Stay

**Chapter Two: A Place to Stay**

He walked a few metres ahead of her until he was sure she was following. Buddy trotted at her side, his scruffy head bobbing up and down and panting with the effort of moving quickly in the cold night. She let her right hand dangle down to pet the dog while her left shielded her from the wind. As the Doctor fell into step with her, it was clear from the silence hanging between them that he had meant what he said about not attempting to make a conversation. Clara took it upon herself to strike up some chat.

"I haven't seen you before."

He shot her a sideways glance. "Nah. I don't gather with the others much. I keep to myself. But if you haven't heard of me that must mean you haven't been here long."

Clara met his gaze. "Why would I have heard of you?"

"I help Dodger with a few things. Most people in the London network know of me, if they haven't met me."

"I know Dodger. He helped me…" she struggled to find the right terminology, "_settle in_, shall we say."

As they turned the corner, the Doctor held out his hand to help Clara hop over a rather large puddle. She took it with ease.

They walked in silence for a few more minutes with nothing but Buddy's shallow breaths and the whistling wind between them. He'd taken them just out of the inner city now; trees and small hedgerows were becoming a common sight. The Doctor stopped at a broken fence, tilting his head to allow Clara to squeeze through first. She gruffly threw her bag through the gap before, with the help of the Doctor, safely crawling to the other side. He'd led her to an abandoned street, by the looks of it, with the houses covered with graffiti and the small windows boarded up. Every city had these areas – the ones everyone would usually avoid, the places the tour guides would conveniently forget to mention. It was safe to say Clara had never experienced somewhere like this first hand before now.

But it appeared as if they weren't stopping. Once the Doctor and Buddy were through the fence, they bypassed the street completely.

"Three months," Clara said suddenly, matching his marching pace.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Three months?"

"You said I hadn't been on the streets for long. It's been three months."

He frowned, his long strides slowing down so he could focus on her. "Not long enough to know who to avoid and who you can rely on, then. It's just as well you've met Dodger already."

"What are you?" she asked, a slight sparkle to her eyes. "I've followed you all the way out here. So are you someone to avoid or someone to trust?"

The Doctor stopped walking altogether. He sucked in a large breath, hands on his hips, staring at the wet gravel ground. His tone was light-hearted, but his words were sombre. "Depends on who you ask."

When he looked back up at her, his eyes had shifted. The kind hazel were now arched with sadness, a look so deep that Clara felt her heart clench. A thousand questions sprung to mind, even a few petty concerns but she couldn't break their mutual stare.

"Two years," he said with a faint smile.

Clara was pulled back into reality. "Sorry?"

"How long I've been homeless. Two years."

For Clara, the last three months had been the longest of her entire life. The idea of spending two years on the street stretched before her for an eternity and, if she was honest with herself, she wasn't quite sure if she was strong enough to make it. The Doctor seemed ancient to her now, ancient and strong – someone who had braved the snowstorms of last year without any protection, whilst she had gazed at the flurries from her window in a silent, and warm, awe.

"We're nearly there," he told her, pointing to a small shack at the bottom of the run-down street.

Buddy ran ahead of them and Clara's lip curled as the dog playfully nudged past her. The Doctor's offer of a place to stay wasn't what she expected. The wooden hut was falling to pieces, its plastic roof barely strong enough to support the walls. As they approached, the Doctor held open the creaky door, the perfect gentleman. When Clara entered, she was surprised to see the floor covered with sleeping bags and blankets, homely little touches and personal belongings giving it an extra perk.

"I know what you're thinking – a big gust of wind will have this place tumbling down around us," the Doctor said, closing the door behind him. He slumped down beside Buddy who was perched on a muddy cushion. "But this place has lasted me nearly a year and a half now. Through sleet and snow."

Clara wasn't sure where to sit. She opted for the opposite side of the hut, between a thick blanket and fluffy rug. "Where did you get all this stuff?" she asked, her hand grazing over the warmth of the carpet.

"You'd be surprised what people just leave behind in old houses. This is a collection I've built over the last two years." He was rustling around in a plastic bag. Clara watched him. "When was the last time you had something to eat?" he asked.

She dropped her gaze. Embarrassment flickered in her stomach, along with a suppressed hungry groan she'd been holding back all day. All she needed to do was ignore her gurgling stomach and she could easily forget the hunger. The slightest bit of attention she paid to it made her suddenly aware of the painful emptiness.

"Yesterday," she said, brushing it off. "Dodger brought me a cup of soup."

"Why don't you go to the hostel? A few days a week the volunteers cook fresh meals."

Clara shuffled. An uncomfortable shiver crossed her skin and she kept her gaze focussed on her crossed knees. "I've been there once. Didn't like it."

"Why not? They're good people."

She shook her head. "The way they look at you. With pity. You catch it from the corner of your eye and it makes you feel so…"

Unexpectedly, he chuckled. Clara glanced up at him, her eyebrows pulling together. "What?"

With a wave of his hand he gestured at her. "You've still got your pride. You still think you can survive entirely on your own. Sitting out there, under the bridge – anything could've happened to you. Refusing to accept a hot meal because the volunteering staff shows you sympathy. You'd rather starve than wound your ego."

"And so what if I do still have my pride?" Clara snapped.

"Hey," he raised his hands as if he was surrendering, a smile still hovering over his lips. "I never said it was a bad thing. It's unusual to see. I just hope it doesn't kill you."

With that, he offered her three digestive biscuits with an open palm.

Clara stared at them cautiously. As if on cue, her stomach gave a loud growl.

"Clara Oswald," John said, his voice practically begging her. "I'm not trying to trick you or poison you or lure you into a false sense of security. You can stay here for the night and leave tomorrow without looking back. But, please, take the biscuits. It's the only food I have to offer and I don't want you starving yourself."

She still held onto a small moment of defiance. Then;

Sighing, Clara leaned across to accept his gift. They were crumbling in her hand as she studied them, her fingers brushing over the imprinted company name. "I'm just sorry I have nothing to offer you," she muttered. "Why are you being so kind?"

"I'm not being kind. I just didn't like the idea of a twenty-something pretty girl staying out in the open all night. Or starving, for that matter."

Clara's gaze shot up at him, her eyes round, her brows raised.

He immediately realised what he said. His eyes bulged and his mouth turned into a comical 'o' as all colour drained from his face. Clara watched, refusing to help him along because for the first time in weeks she felt like laughing.

"Did you just call me pretty?" she teased.

"I uh… I um, well I…" his mouth was moving but words disappeared altogether. He was babbling like a fish. "Shut up!" he decided, crossing his arms in a huff, but Clara couldn't stop grinning.

"Thank you," she said, taking a bite. "For the biscuits."

His face lit up. "No problem. If you stick around tomorrow, I'll try to get us and Bud something better."

"Hmm," Clara considered. "We'll see."

But they both knew she would. She had already followed him, accepted his shelter, taken his food and shared conversation. And so, Clara finished her biscuit in silence and slipped the other two into her coat pocket to save for breakfast. With a small smile she turned on her side, appreciating the soft rug underneath her. This was the cosiest she had felt in months.

"Night, John."

There was a soft thud just behind her. John had thrown her an extra thick blanket.

"Sleep well, Clara."

Perhaps accepting John's shelter was the best decision she had made in a long time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hello! Thank you for supporting this fic! This is what I call a filler chapter; it's only purpose is to move characterisation forward. The first five chapters or so will be quite quiet, but it'll get much more exciting from then. I'm quite busy at the moment (I have a lot less free time than when I wrote my other stories) so I will update any chance I get. Please keep reviewing!**


	3. Hoops and Hopes

**A/N: Sorry for the delay guys, I've had a lot of commitments! I'm very busy at the moment and really trying my best. Big thank you to all the reviewers from last time; Dede42, Ernold Same, Guest, BowtiesSouffles and Guest! You're all wonderful - as are the people who private messaged me their comments. Hopefully you like this one. Reviews encourage me to squeeze in writing wherever I can so please keep them coming! **

**Chapter Three: Hoops and Hopes **

"Morning sleepy head!"

Clara groaned as she felt something insistently nudging her. She opened her eyes to find a dog jumping on top of her, trying to senselessly lick her face. It took Clara a moment to remember where she was and how she got here, covered in a thick warm blanket and feeling fully refreshed. The second thing she noticed was a tin of spaghetti hoops sitting beside her makeshift pillow.

"I know," said John, leaning against a stack of old newspapers. "Spaghetti hoops are practically worth their weight in gold. Especially in this cold weather."

Propping herself up on her elbows, Clara stared at the tin in silent wonder. "Where did you get these?!"

He shot her a cheeky wink. "I have a supplier," he joked. "Nah, I just know where to go. Big supermarkets like Tesco quite regularly throw away produce coming up to the sell-by date. I know a guy who gives me what he can without his boss finding out."

Clara held the tin in her hands, rolling it backwards and forwards, appreciating the weight. She could practically smell the contents as her stomach tightened, and she had an urge to tear open the lid and eat the hoops cold. But she didn't feel right, she felt guilty. This was John's find, and he had no reason to share anything with her. She hated the sense of obligation it was causing.

"John, I really don't I think I should –"

"You're right," he interrupted. He stood up, snatched the tin of hoops and held it along with his own. "You shouldn't eat these cold. I have a big tin barrel I use to cook things. Grab a few newspapers for me and I'll heat these up for us in no time."

Clara stared up at him but he was avoiding her gaze, patting his pockets searching for something. "That really wasn't what I was about to say."

He exclaimed in triumph as he found what hew as looking for – a small box of matches. "Clara," he said, sighing. He held open the door for her, and the sudden gust of cold air in their warm little hideaway caused her to involuntarily shiver. "Please, don't be difficult. I don't know about you but I'm hungry."

She got to her feet and walked over to him, arms crossed and pausing before the threshold. She looked into his face, eyes slightly narrowed, trying to suss him out. That was when she realised she was probably being a bit ungrateful. If John said he was doing this without a hidden agenda (and it really did seem like he was just being nice) perhaps she would choose to believe him.

"Thank you."

He was puzzled. She smiled.

"Well, don't make me say it again," she joked. She stepped past him, taking the tins from his hands. "A barrel awaits us, good sir."

Clara held out her arm for him. John beamed, his eyes crinkling as he slipped his arm through hers, kicking the door shut. Buddy darted between their legs as John led them a little way behind his makeshift home, to where a battered iron barrel stood, orange with rust. John lifted the lid and flung a handful of newspapers into the bottom before taking out his matches and carefully removing one from the small box.

"What does Buddy eat?" Clara asked as the question popped into her mind.

John dropped the match into the barrel. "I have a few dog biscuits I give him now and again but mostly he finds his own way like the rest of us. Mice, rats, small birds. He's quite the hunter."

Clara glanced to the obedient dog, now sitting beside her feet. He looked back up at her with soulful brown eyes.

"Was he your dog before…" she faltered for a moment. "Before you lived on the streets?"

He was quiet for a long moment, watching the flames flick and flutter against the burning paper. When he met Clara's gaze, his eyes were sad. "No. I found him. He was a tiny pup, barely able to lift his own head. Someone had dumped him in a recycling bin. It was pouring down with rain that night and the streets were so flooded I couldn't make it home to my shelter. I hid in the alley behind some bins. That was when I heard his yelping."

Clara's heart ached at the very thought of someone abandoning a helpless puppy – not to mention leaving him somewhere with no chance of survival. "You saved him?" she asked, despite already knowing the answer. She wanted to hear him say it.

"I'm not a hero, Clara," he laughed, although it didn't reach the rest of his face. "I just did the right thing."

John popped open the two cans of spaghetti hoops, set them on the lid of the barrel and placed it directly over the steaming fire. Clara placed her hands against the outside of the metal. The heat spread over her numb fingertips, tingling pleasurably. John watched her without watching her, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Do you do this often, then?" Clara asked. "Pick up us strays?"

He swept his unruly hair out of his eyes, mischief lighting up his features. "A stray taking in strays? Is there a name for that?"

"I'm almost certain there isn't."

He fell into light, easy laughter. Both of their attentions were immediately captured by the bubbling of the spaghetti hoops. Clara had never smelt anything so appetising in her entire life, she was sure of it.

"You know what would make these better? Some ham. Or sausages! Aw, I haven't had sausages since last Christmas at the hostel!" John's eyes lit up at the memory. He lifted the scorching cans from the barrel and passed one to Clara, warning her it was hot. The sudden heat almost caused her to drop the precious tin altogether, but John steadied her hand. He led her over to a mossy log, only a few strides away from the cooking barrel. They sat side by side, clutching the spaghetti hoops, letting the steam warm them through. A blissful silence fell between them.

Clara copied John, who took a long sip from the tin like it was a cup of coffee. It felt as if she was sitting in a warm shower as she gulped down the spaghetti; the tomato sauce was slightly bitter and tickled her tongue while the hoops were small morsels of goodness. Her empty stomach gurgled after each mouthful, as if it wasn't really sure how to process such rich food anymore.

When she glanced over at John, her smile grew more pronounced. Tomato sauce had dribbled onto his chin as he hastily downed his own tin. She silently pointed it out, and in response, he fumbled with his sleeve to wipe it off. When Clara caught his eye, she found she couldn't look away. This was weird for her; she barely knew this man and yet she felt differently. She felt comfortable with him. As if she was safe. She blinked and broke the long gaze; a warmth of a different kind creeping over her skin.

"It's the boredom," she decided to say. "Not having anything to do all day. That's what gets to me the most."

"I have a few things to do today, with Dodger, funnily enough. You can come along, I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"What are you doing?"

"Just a few errands."

"Like what?"

"This and that."

Clara narrowed her eyes. "You're being deliberately obtuse."

He paused for a moment to consider. "I would love to tell you, Clara, but I'd like to run it past Dodger first."

"Is he your partner in crime then?"

"In a manner of speaking."

She started at that. "You're not actually a criminal are you?"

His smile, which had been so resilient from the moment she woke up, faltered at her words. Alarm bells sounded in Clara's head – what if she was sitting conversing with a convicted criminal? What if the bumbling idiot was just an act to make her stay? She didn't know a thing about this man other than he had saved a puppy from almost certain death. Somehow, she couldn't quite place this man in the same category as danger.

He chose his words carefully. "I don't consider myself a criminal. I've never been in prison. Have I committed crimes? Of course. Even the most moral person walking the street has committed a crime. I've stolen things to keep myself alive. I've trespassed property to avoid bad weather. I've lied, I've cheated, I've blackmailed. Did I do any of those things with bad intentions? No. Never. So, tell me, how does that make me any different than your average businessman in his cushy apartment?"

Clara chewed on her lip. "You didn't have bad intentions?" she offered.

John laughed, despite trying very hard not to react. When he spoke again, his tone was lighter. "My point is, victims of society are always the ones people blame and judge because they have no voice to fight back with. A businessman does what he can to push his career to the top of the ladder? Good on him, he's a real hard worker. A homeless man steals a loaf of bread because he hasn't eaten in days? Lock him in irons. Money talks, and when you have none, no one wants to hear you. So, do I class myself as a criminal? I haven't done anything someone in my position wouldn't do. And I stand by that."

"Quite an impassioned speech, Mr. Smith." She felt the sudden tension in her shoulders ease, and in its place, a sense of admiration. "Almost sounds as if you've experienced the high as well as the low."

"I wasn't a businessman, if that's what you're wondering. Oh no, I was much more important than a businessman." His eyes glowed at what he said next. "I was a Doctor. I still am a Doctor, I will always be a Doctor – I can lose everything, but I'll never lose that."

"A medical Doctor?"

"A very good one, if I say so myself," John confirmed. He nudged her with his elbow, almost playfully. "And what about you, Clara Oswald?"

Clara hesitated. In truth, she didn't like talking about what her future was supposed to look like – it made the rush of disappointment wash over her all the more stronger as time went on. She was wasting her life. She remembered how people used to say she had potential growing up, that she would make something of herself. If only they could see her now.

"I was training to be a teacher," she confessed, her voice flat. "And I loved every second of it."

She didn't elaborate.

He didn't ask.


End file.
